


Here's to You, Mrs. Rangarajan

by Tipsy_Kitty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:43:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsy_Kitty/pseuds/Tipsy_Kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam & Dean aren't together, but they’re still much closer physically than brothers should be, and since they share everything else...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here's to You, Mrs. Rangarajan

**Author's Note:**

> This is an spn-xmas gift fic for stripysockette, based on her prompt. It's not quite Wincest, more like Wincest-adjacent het.

Dean stumbles back to the hotel a couple of hours after Sam has turned in. He is _certainly_ not drunk, just _slightly_ less coordinated than usual. He scrubs some cool water over his face and reaches clumsily for his toothbrush. He watches it skid out of his grasp and fall with a wet plop into the toilet.

“Mother fucking fuck!” Dean yells.

“Dammit, Dean, shut up!” Sam yells back.

“I’m using your toothbrush!”

“So use it quietly, ASS!”

And maybe some would have thought it was weird that they didn’t get around to buying a second toothbrush for a couple of weeks, but Sam and Dean hardly noticed they were sharing. It was nothing they hadn’t done before.

Sam kneels on the floor of an Ace Hardware, comparing rock salt prices per quantity.

“Seriously, just grab one,” Dean says crossly.

“Hang on, I’m trying to see why this one is $2 cheaper.”

“Oh, for— just get the cheapest one. I need a burger and a beer two hours ago.”

He turns back and looks down at his brother, noticing how Sam’s boxers have ridden up under his jeans.

“Hey Sammy?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you wearing my underwear?”

“Yeah,” Sam says absently. “Mine were all dirty.”

“You didn’t think to ask?”

Sam gives him a pointed look. “Mine were all dirty because _you_ kept wearing them last week.”

 _Oh, right_ , Dean thinks, and then shrugs. Wasn’t like they’d never shared before.

Tuesday morning, they get back to the hotel at 11:40, covered in blood and some kind of foul-smelling ectoplasm. (“Ew, ghost jizz,” Dean had said. Sam had punched him in reply.)

“We gotta be outta here before noon,” Dean says. “I’m not paying for another day in this dump.”

“You’re not paying for it at all.”

“Still,” Dean says. “Our credit cards are close to maxed, and we need to be in Dearborn by tomorrow night.”

They both survey the room: clothes strewn about, Sam’s research in piles all over the bed, the floor, his laptop, where they’d left everything when they finally figured out what to burn the night before. They couldn’t get anything packed without spreading the goo onto everything they owned.

“Shower,” they both say at once, and methodically strip down, climbing in together, quickly washing away the grime and filth and goop, efficiently switching places to rinse off under the spray and get moving.

They don’t look at each other in the shower, but they don’t _not_ look at each other. They’d been doing this since they were kids—not often, but if time was short or if the water heater was especially crappy wherever they were staying. After a lifetime of hunting monsters, it was hardly the strangest thing they’d ever done.

Her name is Libby, and she’s standing between Dean and some sort of malevolent housecoat as far as he can tell.

“It’s not a housecoat,” Sam had snorted into the phone when he’d called with the info. “It’s a sari.”

“Sorry?”

Sam had hung up on him.

Dean wanders around the college library for a bit—it’s an art school, so there’s some pretty eye-opening stuff on display. Finally he makes his way down to the Textile Museum and Archives, located in the basement. He opens the door into the cool temperature-controlled room, expecting to find a dour old lady or a fusty man in tweeds, so he’s a bit taken aback when he’s greeted by a sloe-eyed brunette in her late twenties.

Jackpot, Dean thinks, as he throws a little extra something into his swagger.

“Hiya,” he says by way of greeting. “I’m Dean.”

“Libby.”

He explains to her that he’s writing an article for “one of those artsy clothing magazines,” and wants to take a look at their collection of saris.

She raises an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“Which sari?”

“Which magazine?”

Dammit, Sam had told him one to mention but Dean had only been half paying attention.

“ _Fiber Optics_?” he says, and then immediately winces.

“Of course, _Fiberarts_ ,” Libby says smoothly. She opens the door to the back room and starts down a long corridor filled to capacity with plain, numbered boxes.

“Very _Raiders_ ,” Dean says, looking around.

“Hmm.”

“So, you must really like fashion?” he tries again, watching her shapely behind as she leads the way.

She throws a look over her shoulder and he belatedly realizes she’s wearing jeans and a hoodie.

“I like archives,” Libby says dryly. “I’m studying library science.”

“Oh!” Dean says. “That sounds…” he trails off. It sounds hideously boring as far as he’s concerned, but he’s already off to a rocky start with Libby.

Sam would probably love her.

She leads him to the alcove where some of the modern Hindi garments are stored, and then perches on a stool two feet away, chin in hands, watching every move he makes.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” Dean says. “I promise I’ll be good.”

“I’m sure,” she says, eyes dancing. “But I’ll just hang out here anyway.”

“Don’t you need to get back to the front desk?”

“Nope,” she grins. “There’s a bell.”

“Oh.” _Shit._

“Dude,” Dean hisses into the phone an hour later, standing outside the library amidst a crowd of student smokers. “The library chick _hates_ me!”

There’s a pause during which Dean can almost hear Sam looking heavenward for help.

“Did you _call_ her a chick?”

“No?”

Another pause, during which Dean knows Sam doesn’t believe him. Fucking intuitive fucker.

“Did you at least figure out where they’re keeping it?”

“Yeah, I know the shelf, box number, everything. But she’s been watching me like a hawk.”

“All right. Let’s meet up in a couple of hours and we’ll figure something out.”

Sam sits at the bar sipping a beer and absently doodling the haunted garment.

“Fashion designer?” asks the bartender.

“Apparently not,” Sam says, closing the journal and looking up. “You’re not Bud.”

She smiles. “Shift change. How long have you been parked there?”

He glances at her name tag, trying not to pay too much attention to the sparkly-martini t-shirt that shows a nice swell of cleavage. “Too long, Elizabeth.”

He orders a plate of fries and then asks her what she knows about the spate of injuries that have been plaguing the campus library. Several students and instructors had sworn that they were pushed down the large front staircase, even though there was little to substantiate their claims.

She shrugs. “I’m there almost every day."

“They’re supposed to have one of the best textile collections in the country.”

“So I hear,” she says, moving away to take care of other customers as the bar slowly fills up. He watches her move around behind the bar efficiently, notices how her jeans cradle her heart-shaped ass.

Dean would probably love her.

He throws some money down on the bar and finishes his beer in one swallow.

At 10 p.m. the library is still open, but it’s early in the term and there aren’t many people around. Dean leads the way down the stairs and to the locked museum entrance.

“There’s gotta be security on that door,” Sam muses.

“Yeah, probably motion sensors too, so we can’t _Mission Impossible_ our way in from the ceiling.”

“Why don’t we just come back tomorrow. You can go in the back and piss off the librarian again, and then I can come in and distract her.”

“Or you could just ask me,” says a voice behind them.

They both jump.

“Libby?” Dean asks, at the same time Sam says “Elizabeth?”

“You guys must be the least stealthy thieves _ever_.”

The brothers glance at each other.

“So why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on and why you’re trying to break into my museum?”

“Really, we should just be….” Sam says

“…going right now, sorry,” Dean finishes.

She pulls out a 2-way radio. “I can have a swarm of security guards here in 20 seconds,” she says. “Plus I know judo.”

They follow her into the museum, where she points them to one of the study tables.

“Spill.”

Sam looks at Dean. Dean looks at Sam. They both study their knees. Nobody says anything for several minutes.

“Fine,” Libby sighs. “This is all pretty ridiculous, but here’s what I know. _You_ ,” she points at Dean, “come into the Textile Museum claiming to be a reporter for Fiber Optics magazine.”

“ _Dammit_ , Dean.”

“And you,” she points at Sam, “come into the bar asking about weird accidents on campus and drawing terrible pictures of the same thing _he_ was so excited to find this afternoon.”

“ _Dammit_ , Sam.”

“And, not to stereotype, but you’re both dressed like lumberjacks so I have a hard time believing you have a legitimate interest in the history of fiber and fabrics.”

“Hey!” Dean protests. “He’s the one who lives in plaid.”

She ignores that. “So I’m figuring either you guys have watched too many episodes of _Scooby Doo_ , and you’re causing accidents so people stay out of your way…or you’re after poor Mrs. Rangarajan’s sari because she died in it, and you think it’s cursed.”

Sam coughs. “Haunted,” he says.

“What?”

“The sari. It’s not cursed, it’s haunted.”

“Oh.” She sits down. “That explains a lot.”

“And we would have got away with it too, if not for you meddling—” Dean says.

Sam kicks him.

“You’re taking this pretty well,” Sam says as Libby guides them between rows of boxes.

“I saw her a couple of times, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well, I thought I was imagining things or that I’d fallen asleep without noticing. Between the museum in the afternoons and the bar at night and working on my thesis…” she shrugs.

They reach the shelf Dean remembers from earlier that day, and Libby pulls out the box. Dean picks up the offending strip of cloth and looks it over.

“What makes this so special, anyway?”

“Sharmi Rangarajan was a well-known—do you really care?”

“Nah,” Dean says.

“So how do you stop a piece of cloth from being haunted?” Libby asks.

Sam and Dean glance at each other.

“We burn it,” Sam finally says.

“Oh, _hell_ no!” She snatches the cloth back from Dean. “These are museum pieces! They’re meant to be kept forever!”

“Libby,” Sam says patiently. “She’s hurting people. She could kill someone.”

“Can’t you just like, wave some herbs over it or something?”

“No,” the brothers say at once.

“The violence always escalates, believe me,” Sam says.

Libby bites her lip uncertainly.

“I’m going to get kicked out of the SAA for this,” she grumbles, handing it back to Dean. He pulls out his lighter and she smacks his hand.

“Not here! We’re surrounded by 30,000 pounds of cardboard and papers and fabric!”

“Well, we better move then,” Dean says. “In our experience, ghosts don’t usually sit around waiting to be roasted.”

They’re out of the maze of boxes in minutes, standing by the museum entrance while Libby locks up, when Mrs. Rangarajan finally puts in an appearance. She shoves Sam out of the way and rounds on Dean, who is already flicking the lighter. He throws the burning cloth to the ground and the ghost goes up in a screaming pillar of fire.

“Holy crap,” Libby says, wide-eyed.

“That should be that,” Dean says.

And then the fire alarm starts wailing.

They look at one another, hear footsteps thundering down the stairs.

“This way,” Libby yells, and they follow her as she sprints through a through a maze of hidden corridors in the bowels of the library, finally exiting one floor up and 500 feet away from where the fire was set.

They’re wet from the sprinklers and a little bit breathless when they finally emerge into the warm September night.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks her.

Libby doubles over and Dean and Sam exchange worried looks.

Then she starts laughing until she’s in tears.

“Whiskey,” she gasps finally, straightening up.

“We’ve got a bottle of Jack back at our hotel.”

“Sold.”

Dean pours the whiskey into three plastic cups, and Libby raises her drink to poor Mrs. Rangarajan, may she finally be at peace.

Dean rolls his eyes but knocks his cup against hers.

“Do I want to know how many ghosts and things are out there?” Libby asks.

“No,” Sam says.

“Do I want to know how many rare and precious objects you guys have burned?”

“Definitely not,” Dean says.

“All right then,” she says. “That doesn’t leave us much to talk about. Screw Your Neighbor?”

Dean produces a deck of cards. “That I’m _very_ good at.”

Sam snorts.

They sit at the breakfast table and play cards, Dean and Libby working out some complicated arrangement for when shots should be taken. It’s surprisingly relaxing, because the game doesn’t require much thought and the whiskey is going down easy. Sam is having more fun than he’s had in ages but he knows soon Dean’s going to give him that stupid head nod of his, and Sam’s going to have to make up some lame reason for leaving and go sleep in the car. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before.

So he’s completely taken by surprise when Dean goes to the bathroom and Libby takes the opportunity to climb into his lap.

“Uh,” he says. Then she’s kissing him and man, it’s been awhile. He raises his large hands to cup her face, hungry lips nudging at her mouth, which tastes of strawberries and whiskey. She presses her chest against his as the kiss deepens, tongues licking and tickling and God, she feels good, soft and warm and his cock is steadily hardening as she straddles his thighs.

 _Aw, crap_ , Dean thinks as he walks out of the bathroom and sees Libby kissing his brother. He’d been just about ready to give Sam his trusty head-nod signal. Now it looks like _he’ll_ be the one sleeping in Baby’s backseat. He reaches for his keys and heads towards the door.

Libby pulls away from the kiss and turns to give Dean a hazy look, eyes heavy-lidded with lust.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Uh….” Dean says. He looks at Sam, but Sam’s not even paying attention, instead sucking at Libby’s neck until she moans.

“I thought I’d give you two some privacy?”

“Don’t you want to play, too?” she asks, sitting up straighter and pulling the martini t-shirt over her head.

“I don’t…” Dean’s eyes dart back and forth between his brother and the half-naked, really hot chick, not sure what to do.

“Don’t you boys ever share?”

She runs her fingers through Sam’s long hair as he nibbles at her neck.

“Not really, not this,” Dean says, but he takes a step closer anyway, hesitant yet interested.

“You don’t have to stay,” she murmurs, arching her back as Sam bends down lower and begins mouthing at the silky fabric of her purple half bra. “But I’ve seen a ghost tonight, and destroyed a valuable artifact, and set my library on fire.” She pulls Sam away from her breast and crashes her lips into his again, as his hands slide up her smooth back and deftly unhook her bra.

“What I’d really, really like?” she says as she pulls away from Sam’s lips, “is for you both to fuck my brains out tonight, and then my life can go back to normal tomorrow.” She looks over her shoulder again, catches Dean’s eye. “I’ve had a _very_ strange day.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice has gone husky as he steps up behind her. “That’s what you want tonight? That’s what you need?”

She climbs off Sam’s lap and then strips off his shirts and her own jeans before settling down on Sam again, her back against his bare chest. His hands rove over her breasts, down her stomach, to the scrap of fabric covering her pussy.

“You’re so wet,” Sam murmurs, sliding a finger under her panties.

“Oh, _God_ ,” Dean says, peeling out of his own clothes, decision made for him with those three little words. He waits for it to feel strange to be having a threesome with his brother, but it doesn’t. They’ve shared so many other things. He shrugs and steps up to the chair, and she leans over to lick the tip of his dick, and then his higher brain function is pretty much shot for the night.

Libby grabs Dean’s round, perfect ass and draws him closer, leaning over so she can get her mouth on his very pretty cock. She licks it like an ice cream cone, a hot, salty, ice cream cone. The thought almost makes her giggle and she wonders if she’s losing her mind.

 _Forget about the dammed ghost, woman,_ she tells herself, and then promptly does just that when Sam slides his hands under her thighs and lifts her higher, spreading his own legs and holding her open with his knees. She throws her head back, forgetting about Dean for the moment, as Sam nibbles on her earlobe and slowly rubs circles over her slit, still covered by her dampening panties. Remembering, she leans forward to take Dean’s hard, thick cock in her mouth again, smiling around it and looking up to catch his eye.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, and bucks a little as she continues bobbing up and down and kneading his ass.

Sam’s hands drift further up to her breasts, cupping them and teasing at her nipples. He moves her thick hair over one shoulder and out of his way so he can continue sucking on her neck, and she shivers with want, grinding her ass against his hard cock, still packed away in his jeans.

Dean sinks to the floor, graceful as a cat, and licks a wide swath up her pale pink panties and she melts back against Sam, who spreads her legs even wider. The wet heat of Dean’s tongue, so close but not close enough, has her whimpering like a damn puppy.

She throws her head back against Sam’s hard, naked chest, and he laughs, low and warm.

“Easy, Lib,” he says.

Dean starts to move her legs to slide off her underwear but she shakes her head. He looks up at her, confused or maybe worried, but the look in her eyes reassures him. He takes the delicate fabric and rips it apart and _yes_ , she’s finally spread open and dripping with want, squirming with need. She reaches down and ghosts a hand over his cheeks, his freckles, marveling that one man can contain that much pretty, and then his tongue is tracing her opening and conscious thought flies out of her head again. She tries to shift her legs, to press closer, but Sam’s thighs are like steel and all she can do is wriggle her hips.

“What do you want?” Sam asks, his lips grazing her ear, and she shivers. _Everything_ , she thinks.

“I want…”

She trails off, for the first time kind of self-conscious, but Sam says, “I want to, need to hear it. Need to give you what you want.”

“I want, I want Dean to lick me open until I’m screaming,” she says, and Sam’s fingers clutch at her hips, the first time his composure has slipped since this crazy dance started.

Dean’s tongue is exploring further, tickling her insides and then licking around her folds, one gentle suck of her clit and then away again, teasing, that fucker, and she arches her back again.

“That all?” Sam asks, sounding amused.

“Nuh, after…” she says, panting heavily now as Dean starts focusing more on licking and sucking at her clit, thumbs playing at her entrance, slick with his spit and her own juices, “after I want to… to lay Dean down and climb on top, and ride him until I’m, I’m coming again with…with his huge dick inside me.”

Sam groans. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

She presses her back into his bare chest, moving her pelvis in time with Dean’s very talented tongue, just about ready to come undone and let go. She throws her arms over her head, fingers gripping at Sam’s nape, and she’s close, fuck, she’s so goddamn close…

“What about me?” Sam murmurs, hot baritone in her ear.

Her entire body tenses and she tosses back her head, cries _fuck, fuck, god, yeah_ , toes tingling into numbness, and Dean doesn’t stop and she keeps coming, pleasure rippling through her in waves until everything is too sensitive, too much, just…too.

She groans, limp, as Sam shifts his legs so he’s not holding her open anymore, so she’s sitting on his lap.

“You’ll be there too,” she whispers, and hears two simultaneous moans, sounding so much alike that it would make her laugh if she weren’t so thoroughly spent from the power of her orgasm.

Dean leans in and kisses her, she can taste herself on his tongue and _fuck_ , even that’s hot, her last boyfriend was such a squeamish priss, and Dean kisses different than Sam, gentler, somehow less inquisitive but more personal.

Then Sam is tossing her on the bed and climbing on top, grinding his jeans into her wet cunt, and she shudders with renewed want, loses her words again.

Dean retrieves a roll of condoms and a bottle of astroglide that generally only sees action when he’s fucking his own fist.

Sam reluctantly stands up again, shucking his jeans and boxers, and Libby sits up, pats the bed with a pointed look at Dean.

He throws her a condom and she rips it open, smell of latex and lube and sex, and Dean lies down on the bed and she’s sliding it over his dick.

“Do you need?” Sam asks, holding up the lube, and Libby chuckles, low and dirty.

“Not for this part,” she says, raising herself up to her knees and then sliding down the length of Dean’s cock, slow but sure, till he’s all the way in and she’s seated on his legs again. She gives an experimental twitch of her hips and then rides him, pushing down and sliding up, lips parted, eyes closed in arousal. Then she leans forward, Dean raising up to catch a nipple in his mouth and lick, and she looks over at Sam, says “Now.”

He moves up behind her, “Are you?” and she leans forward further, buries her head in Dean’s chest, and reaches back and parts her cheeks for him.

“Have you ever?” Sam asks, and her response is muffled by Dean’s skin, but he hears _not at once, but yeah_ …

He runs his hands over the soft skin of her back, over her hands, still holding her open, looks at her ass being presented to him and he feels a hot surge of lust.

He slicks up his fingers with the lube and gently circles the pink, puckered opening. He’s done this a couple of times, but not with another guy already in place, and he wants to be gentle but he also just _wants_.

Dean is counting back from 100 in increments of 7, while running his hands over Libby’s back, tracing the contours of her hips, the dip of her spine. Sam is prepping her ass, and he’s being very thorough, and Dean is just trying to keep still but he’s so fucking horny, so fucking ready, and she’ll lean over and catch him in a kiss and he just wants to move, fuck up and up into her warmth, suck at her breasts like he’s starving, and then it’s back to 51…44…37.

He hears Sam say “Ready?” and feels Libby’s nod as her hair tickles his chin, and then Sam is rolling on a condom, and pushing in slowly, and Dean can _feel_ it, can feel his brother’s cock through a thin membrane of flesh, squeezing his own even tighter, and that should be weird but it’s not, it’s just really fucking hot, and he groans.

Libby grips Dean’s arms tight as Sam works his way in. It takes a while, it’s been a while since she’s had anything bigger than her index finger up there but she knows it’s what she needs to forget about ghosts and haunted objects and poor murdered Mrs. Rangarajan. She needs pleasure, and pain, and physical sensory overload to shut down the circuits of her brain, and it’s working.

It starts hurting more as Sam inches inside, a fullness she’d never thought possible, their dicks are _huge_ , and she mouths at the skin of Dean’s chest. He brushes her cheeks with his thumbs, “Okay?” and she nods, thinks _I will be_ , and then Sam’s all the way in, a delicious burn and the brothers both groan, feeling their cocks line up with one another, inside her, and they’re patient, they’re waiting for her, waiting for her to _need_ again, and she does, and she starts moving.

She pushes up on her arms, stares down at Dean’s green eyes, slightly unfocused, as Sam begins to rock into her, gentle thrusts, gripping her hips. Dean’s just looking at her, kind of rapt, and she wonders for a half second what he’s feeling, and then holy fuck, she snaps her pelvis and feels her g-spot being worked over by two fat cockheads at once, and she starts thrusting harder, she and Sam setting the pace, Dean just taking what he’s given.

Dean has had sex, Dean has had lots of sex, Dean has had lots of really awesome sex, but he can’t believe he and Sam have never done this before. It feels amazing, Libby hot and wet, making little mewling sounds as she grinds her clit against his flesh, as their dicks flicker over her g-spot, Sam panting behind her, setting the pace for all of them, Sam’s huge dick working at Libby, working at Dean via Libby. He’s not sure how much longer he can last but then Libby takes control for a minute, pushes herself up against Dean’s shoulders, pushes him down into the bed, and she’s found the rhythm that she needs to get off and she’s following it, rolling her hips faster, panting, Sam’s huge mitts cupping her breasts, and when she comes she fucking _growls_ , this guttural sound of pleasure, and that’s it for Dean, watching her come, watching her come on his cock, on Sam’s cock, is the hottest thing he’s ever fucking seen and he follows her, grunts his own release, letting her pussy milk his cock as she spasms and twitches from the strength of her orgasm.

Before she’s even finished coming, her body going limp above Dean, he sees Sam’s hand snake around to her clit and start rubbing and now she’s screaming, the first orgasm not even ended before Sam’s wrenching out a second, and Libby’s writhing and twitching, head buried against Dean’s chest so he’s looking at Sam, watching as he comes, tossing his head back and hissing as he empties himself into the thoroughly used condom.

He knows it’s supposed to be weird, watching his brother come, but he’s seen Sam torn apart with physical pain, with loss and grief, and so instead finds it oddly beautiful, that Sam can look like that, can still feel ecstasy amidst the grueling pain and sorrow that seems to plague them.

Separating is kind of like disengaging from a football pile-on, Sam holding the base of his dick to keep the condom in place and then easing out slowly, Libby sliding up and off of Dean’s spent cock and flopping over on her back, and finally Dean rising up on shaky legs to dispatch his own condom.

Libby stares blankly at the ceiling, right hand caressing her stomach in slow circles. It’s several minutes before she can speak. She makes her way to the bathroom to pee and clean herself up a little, and then she collapses onto the nearest bed. Nobody says anything, but the silence doesn’t seem uncomfortable.

“You guys don’t seem much like cuddlers,” she finally says, voice rough, “but I don’t think I can move.” And then she rolls over onto her stomach and goes to sleep.

She wakes up at 5 a.m.—turns out, Sam _is_ a cuddler—and goes about quietly putting herself back together for the walk home. She finds her top first but almost writes her bra off as a lost cause before she spots it under a pile of boy-clothes, then her jeans, hoodie, and shoes. Her panties are, of course, ruined, and she blushes a little as she remembers Dean tearing them off of her, how needy she was, how wanton. She tucks them into her front pocket, embarrassed at the thought of Sam or Dean picking them up later when they’re packing up to move on. And thank God, Libby’s laundry-day undies are tiny, silken scraps of cloth, her 3rd-date underwear, instead of the boy-shorts she wears everyday because they’re comfy.

She’s already thinking about the day ahead: shower, one more hour of sleep, huge greasy breakfast with her friend Kelly, where she’ll have to hide the glow on her face because she’s not yet ready to share last night with anyone. Then she’ll drag herself to the library to see what fallout is left of their actions from the night before. The library staff will be abuzz with gossip about the fire ( _arsonist? Satanist?_ her co-workers will whisper, and Libby will roll her eyes and say that it was probably an undergrad lighting up). She will studiously throw herself back into her thesis project, and the slow work of cataloguing the correspondence of an 18th-century fashion designer, and online scrabble.

Around six, when it’s almost time for her to close the museum and take over for Bud at Tavern on Eighth, she will absently reach into her front pocket and her fingers will graze the soft scraps of last night’s encounter, and a slow smile will spread across her face as she lets herself remember.

But none of that has happened yet, at 5:07 a.m., and Libby stands at the door looking at the Winchester brothers. They look peaceful in sleep. She picks up the closest phone, Dean’s, and programs the number into her cell.

She doesn’t expect to ever see them again, even though they probably pass through Ohio pretty regularly in their travels; knows that even if they did meet up again last night could never be recaptured.

But.

She does plan to spend her life working with rare books, with strange and unusual objects, in whatever museum or library or archive will have her.

It can’t hurt to have a ghost hunter on speed dial.

-end-


End file.
